


A Separate Place

by owlmoose



Series: Pieces of Thedas [16]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Amnesia, Backstory, Gen, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris wakes into a new life, and is granted a privilege most slaves can only dream of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Separate Place

**Author's Note:**

> Written for zenfallon's prompt "Fenris: A Room of His Own".

He wakes in a darkened room and knows nothing.

Or-- that is not quite right. He knows he is an elf, he knows he is a slave, he knows he has a master and that his master's name is Danarius. He knows he lives in Tevinter, can recall everything he's ever learned about its history. And he knows that the girl leaning over him -- short red hair tucked behind her ears, tears filling her gray eyes -- is also an elf, but he does not know her name, or what significance her presence bears, if any. And when he tries to remember, all he finds is searing pain, blue flames dancing across his flesh, the agony blocking out anything that might have come before.

He closes his eyes and jerks his hand out of hers; even the slight pressure of her gentle fingers against his skin is too much. She sighs, softly, and turns away.

"Time to go," says a male voice from the shadows; the sound is familiar, but he cannot bring forth a name to match. "Say goodbye."

"Goodbye," the girl whispers without looking back. "And thank you."

Why is she thanking him? Why do her words resonate with sadness? The questions dance at the edge of his mind, and the answers are there, but they lie behind a wall of darkness and fire. Pushing though is not worth the effort. Instead, he says nothing, lying still until the door is closed and she is gone.

"Now sit up," the man says, and he obeys; it does not even occur to him that he might disobey. The man steps out of the shadows and into the puddle of lantern light that had illuminated the girl before. "What is your name?"

"I--" That, too, is lost to the fire, his identity burned away, leaving only ashes. "I do not know."

The man nods. "What is my name?"

"Your name is Danarius," he replies, and he knows it as surely as he knows he is breathing. "And you are my master."

"That's right." Danarius smiles, and somehow he breathes easier, as though a danger has passed. "I am your master, and you are my bodyguard. Your name is Fenris."

It feels both foreign and right at the same time as he nods in relief. "Thank you, master."

"Get out of bed, and follow me."

He -- _Fenris, my name is Fenris_ \-- rises from the bed, bare feet hitting the floor as he stands. His legs are shaky, but they bear his weight, and he straightens his back. Danarius studies him for a moment, then opens the door and walks into the hallway. Fenris blinks against the late afternoon sun that pours through the windows. Why had he expected it to be night?

"You have slept through almost an entire day," Danarius says, in answer to the unasked question. "The procedure was quite intense. But you've come through it well, and I expect you'll be right as rain tomorrow morning. Ah, here we are." He stops at a doorway, lays his palm on the handle and speaks a few words, and it glides open beneath his touch. "Your quarters."

Fenris steps into the room. It is little more than a cubicle, with a narrow bed along the right hand wall, and a basin, wardrobe, and chamber pot in the far corner. But it is clearly made for one person only, and there is a small window in the wall opposite the door; it lets in sun and air, and Fenris catches a view of a sumptuous garden. He pivots on his heel, taking in the space, then looks at Danarius with a faintly incredulous air, surprise allowing the impudence of asking a question. He does not remember where he lived before, precisely, but he knows it was not in a room like this. "I am not staying in the slave barracks?"

Danarius shook his head with a smile. "Not any longer. You are my bodyguard and my treasure. The slave quarters are too far away. I need you close at hand, so we can protect each other from those who would harm my most precious creation. Look." He puts a hand on Fenris's shoulder -- the still-tender skin screams an objection, but Fenris does not dare pull away -- and pivots him to face the mirror on the open wardrobe door.

The face of Danarius is familiar, but the elf next to him is not. Green eyes under a shock of white hair, twin white lines that start on his chin and run down his neck to disappear beneath the collar of his tunic. And Fenris knows that there are more markings that he has not yet seen, covering his arms, his torso, his legs, and that these are both cause of and created by the blue fire. "What am I?" he whispers.

"You are my living weapon, little wolf," Danarius says. He brings his hand around from behind, lays a finger on one of the chin markings, and traces it down his neck. "Lyrium, burned into your skin, a technique I have developed to give you unimaginable power. We will learn its possibilities together." He presses his thumb against Fenris's collarbone, and Fenris sucks in an involuntary breath at the pressure. Then Danarius lets him go and steps back, giving him tacit permission to look away from the mirror. "But for tonight, you may rest. I will have dinner delivered, and we will begin work on the morrow."

Fenris brings his hands to his chest, and bows with proper respect. "Thank you, master."

Danarius smiles and arches an eyebrow. "You may not thank me on the morrow. I will see you then. The door on the right wall leads to my quarters. Listen for my knock with the sunrise." 

He turns, robes swirling around his legs, and then he is gone, closing and locking the door behind him. Fenris nearly falls to the bed, then leans back, hands behind his head. A room of his own, far from the rabble of the other slaves and the overseers, and the personal attention of the master. Whatever price he has paid to get here, in pain and in blood, surely it was worth it.


End file.
